Peripeteia
by moogsthewriter
Summary: Peripeteia - n. A sudden change of events. Twoshot. Takes place after 1.15 "The Benders." Complete
1. Part One

_**Summary: **Peripeteia - n. A sudden change of events._ _Two shot._

_**A/N:** This story is dedicated to the ever-awesome eightiswild, also known as **zookitty.** She inspired me to get writing on some of my old ideas and she's been an awesome beta for me on lots of stuff. Thanks, eight! And mega-thanks to Jenn for pulling out the beta to make this surprise story decent._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Supernatural_. Spoilers up to 1.15 "The Benders." Check my profile for another disclaimer. (Announcing it now would be telling, wouldn't it? ;)_

* * *

_"Matter will be damaged in direct proportion to its value."  
- Murphy's Fourth Law_

_Hillside, Wisconsin_

Shiloh stifled a yawn as she walked towards the convenience store on the corner. The early-morning sun was just cresting over the rooftops of the small town, casting long shadows into the street. Shiloh waved at Patrick as the boy pedaled down the sidewalk, occasionally reaching into the basket on the front of his bike to grab a newspaper.

"Mornin', Shiloh!" Patrick called with a grin as he casually tossed a paper at a house. It landed directly on the front step.

Shiloh chuckled as the blond boy's grin turned into a satisfied smirk. "You're getting good at that, kiddo."

"Haven't hit a shrub in two weeks!" Patrick replied, bringing his bike to a stop next to her.

"I bet Mrs. Hansen is thrilled," Shiloh laughed, grabbing her paper out of the basket as Patrick grinned. She waved the periodical at his head. "Now don't forget – I'm not going to work in the morning, so I expect to get my paper on my front step, just like everyone else."

Patrick snapped a salute. "Yes _ma'am_!" he declared.

Shiloh swatted his head lightly with the newspaper. "Get back to work, smart aleck," she said with a smile, tucking the paper into her bag.

Patrick nodded. "Have a good day, Shi!" he called over his shoulder as he pedaled away.

"Thank you! You, too!" Shiloh replied, setting off for the store again.

Twenty minutes later, the petite redhead was pulling up the large window shades, a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner in her hand. She flipped the cardstock sign to "open" and strode back to the small counter. With a smile, she tied the strings of her burgundy apron as the door opened at six a.m. exactly, just as it had every day for the last ten years.

"Morning, Shiloh!" Ted greeted. "Just gettin' the usual."

"I know, Ted," Shiloh replied, already punching in the code for a large coffee and two donuts. "How's it going?"

"Jus' fine. Hopin' to finish that big project today," Ted boomed back as he grabbed a large Styrofoam cup from the dispenser.

Shiloh grinned. "You mean Maggie's windows?"

"Hey, that woman is _very_ picky," Ted shot back sternly, waving a glazed donut at her. "And she nags a lot, too."

"Well, she obviously can't be too picky if she married you," Shiloh teased as the man strode up to the counter.

Ted tipped his head back as he laughed. "She must've had a moment of weakness," he replied, setting his coffee on the counter to pull out his worn leather wallet.

Shiloh smiled as she traded his five for change. "That's what we thought. Good luck with your project."

"Thanks!" Ted called back as he strode out the door, the small bell over the frame tinkling softly with his exit.

Shiloh shook her head as she took a swig of her coffee before turning. She knew it would be at least an hour before another customer walked in, giving her plenty of time to finish stocking shelves.

"Alrighty, let's do this," she huffed as she pushed the door to the stockroom open. With a grunt, she grabbed a box of soup cans off the shelf, back lurching forward as she struggled to support the weight. Shuffling her feet, she slowly moved towards the door, longing for the wheeled cart that was just on the other side but wouldn't fit through the old, narrow doorway.

"I really – need to widen – that thing," she groaned.

Suddenly the toe of her sneaker bumped into a jut in the concrete floor, and with a cry Shiloh staggered forward. The cardboard box flew forward and smacked into the wall by the door with a deep _thud_ before crashing down to the floor. The bottom edge caught on the pipes that were attached snugly to the wall, tipping the box forward as it landed. Cans spilled out onto the floor with a clatter as the top gave way to the weight.

"Damn it," Shiloh growled, kicking at the box with a foot as she stared at the mess in front of her and the gouge in the drywall. "That's just great."

With a sigh, she knelt down and began putting cans back in the box, muttering under her breath. Her hand closed around a knob, and she stared at it for a moment before it clicked. "Perfect," she hissed, tossing the metal handle in the direction of the pipes as she resumed picking up the cans. She looked up as the bell tinkled, and with one last sigh she shot up and out of the door, leaving the mess behind.

-SPN-SPN-SPN-

"So how sure are you about this?" Dean asked, glancing over at Sam, who was poring over a small collection of Xeroxed news articles.

"Pretty damn," Sam replied, flipping a page and jotting a note down in pen.

"Seriously, though – a werewolf hit man? That's pretty far out, even for us," Dean said dubiously as he rolled his shoulders. He winced as the left one twinged painfully.

"I never said 'hit man,'" Sam shot back, glancing up with a raised eyebrow.

Dean immediately suppressed any sign of discomfort as he felt Sam's eyes probe him. "You implied it."

"I merely said the attacks weren't completely random. The victims were connected," Sam said, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned his brother.

"You mean other than the fact they were all ripped to shreds?"

Sam rolled his eyes and focused back on the articles in his lap. Dean had to work to hide a triumphant smirk. "Yeah, other than that," Sam replied sardonically. "They were all involved with a land dispute between John and Andy O'Brien."

"How?" Dean asked.

"Uh… Amy Timmer was Andy's attorney, Tyler Long was one of John's ranch hands, Paul Morris was the guy who allegedly put John's fence three hundred yards into one of Andy's fields, and Landon Perry was the son of the land surveyor," Sam recited as he flipped through the pages.

"And you think this werewolf is somehow consciously aware of who it's attacking?"

Sam shrugged. "It's gotta be more than a coincidence, Dean," he said quietly, eyes flicking back up to his brother. "And it's gotta be a werewolf – all the signs are there."

Dean glanced over at his brother again for a moment. "Well, I suppose it's better than freakin' Minnesota hillbillies," he drawled finally.

Sam chuckled dryly. "Yeah, I suppose."

Dean eased off the gas slightly as they passed the town limit sign for Hillside. "Let's grab some grub," he declared, eyeing a few diners on the street ahead.

Sam glanced at his watch. "If we grab some stuff from a mini-mart, we could make it to Amshire by dark." At Dean's look, he added, "The full moon starts tomorrow night. That'll give us almost a full day to try and figure out who might be the next victim."

"Or who our wolf is," Dean acquiesced. He readjusted his gaze to look for a convenience store.

"There's one," Sam pointed as Dean stopped at a stop sign.

Dean glanced out the passenger-side window and frowned at the dingy gas station Sam was looking at. "If I want to catch an STD, I'll do it in a more enjoyable way, thanks." Not mention he didn't really trust the looks of the motorcycle gang lingering in the lot – they all seemed to be staring straight at Sam.

Sam shot him a look. "We've stopped at worse places, man."

"And your point is?" Dean asked innocently as he eased forward again.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You could quit being so paranoid – it's getting old. Believe it or not, I can take care of myself, Dean."

Dean didn't flinch. Barely. "Yeah, I noticed," he said flatly.

Sam chuffed through his nose and looked back out the window. "There," he snapped finally, nodding his head forward. "Does that look safe enough for you?"

Dean silently pulled into the back corner space in the parking lot of a small grocery store. Throwing the Impala into park, he twisted slightly to look at Sam. "What the hell's your problem?"

"My problem?" Sam exclaimed incredulously, a strangled chuckle escaping his throat. "_My_ problem? Dude, seriously. You hardly let me out of your sight, you barely let me go to the bathroom by myself-"

"Well forgive me for giving a damn," Dean growled sharply. "It's not like you weren't in a frickin' cage being held by the Manson family a little over a week ago or anything."

Sam's eyes darkened as his chin tipped down slightly. "Okay, first off, the Manson family wasn't cannibalistic-"

"Really not helping your argument, Sam."

"-And I can take care of myself. Yeah, I screwed up, okay? I know that," Sam snapped. "And I get that it freaked you out – I do. But this is getting to be a little beyond excessive, Dean."

Dean's jaw clenched as he stared out the windshield at the storefront. He watched an older man guide his walker through the door as a woman held the door for him. The late afternoon sun glinted off the windows, making it impossible to see into the store. He felt a little pull at the pit of his stomach, but couldn't really figure out just what seemed wrong. "Fine. Go get the grub."

The tension flowed from Sam's shoulders as he tilted his head slightly. "That's it?"

"What, you need me to spell it out for you? Or do you really just want me to hold your hand?" Dean shot back tersely. "'Cuz you can't seem to make up your mind lately, and I'm fed up with it. Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving."

Dean regretted the barb as soon as he said it. Sam's shoulders stiffened again, and he silently pushed the door open. Dean blinked as the door slammed shut, and he watched as Sam weaved through the few other cars in the lot. The younger Winchester paused at the door of the store, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the Impala. Dean swallowed at the wounded look in Sam's eyes before Sam disappeared inside the store.

With a sigh, Dean slumped back against the seat, raising a hand to rub his face. "Well that went well," he muttered, letting his arm drop so he could stare at the ceiling. _Smart move, Winchester._

-SPN-SPN-SPN-

Sam sighed as he snatched up a small basket resting near the door. He skirted past a young couple and headed over toward the small refrigerator with the deli sandwiches, his conversation with Dean replaying through his head.

_Smart move, Winchester,_ he chided himself, shoulders slumping forward as he pulled the magnetic door open with a jerk._ Convince Dean you can take care of yourself by acting like a five-year-old._

He tossed a couple turkey sandwiches in the basket. The door shut with a solid thump as he headed for the chip aisle, his forehead creased in thought.

Every time Sam thought he had Dean figured out, his older brother would go and do something unexpected. The case with Cassie a couple weeks ago was a perfect example – Sam had often hoped Dean would find someone he would like to settle down with, but he never actually thought it would happen. Finding out about Cassie had been like a sucker punch to the gut in more ways than one. It had reaffirmed the notion that Dean also longed for some semblance of a normal life, just as Sam did.

It had also proven to Sam just how far apart their relationship had drifted since Stanford. Before he had left for college, Sam would've known within a few days just how serious Dean's relationship had been with Cassie, even if Dean didn't tell him directly – they had been that close. Instead, he'd been blindsided with the information and it was more than a little disconcerting.

But, Sam acknowledged as he grabbed a couple bags of Doritos and another bag of plain potato chips, things hadn't completely changed between them. Dean still was still with him, after all, even after Sam had revealed his secret. Sam had been dreading the possibility that Dean would leave him – or even worse, hunt him down like some supernatural beast. Instead, Dean had done exactly as Sam _should_ have expected – he'd reassured Sam and stood by him.

Of course, then Sam had to go and screw up and get Dean royally pissed at him for something he never should have reacted to in the first place – wanting to protect him. Sam had often longed for that reassurance when he was at Stanford. He'd wanted someone to watch his back, wanted _Dean_ to be there just like he'd always been ever since Sam could remember.

He'd forgotten how smothering that protection could become, though.

_Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving._

Sam ducked his head as he passed a young mother and her two boys, swallowing the lump Dean's last barb brought to his throat. Sam had thought – hoped, really, that they were past his near-trek to California.

Obviously not. Yet another curveball from his older brother.

Sam snagged a large bag of peanut M&Ms as he passed the candy aisle, casting a quick glance out one of the large windows. He winced as sunlight slashed across his eyes painfully, forcing him to turn away.

Picking up his pace slightly, he grabbed a few bottles of soda out of the cooler by the register before setting his basket on the counter, glancing around for a cashier.

A short redhead appeared a moment later, looking flustered as she approached the till. "Sorry, sorry," she panted, tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear as she began punching numbers into the old register.

"That's alright," Sam reassured, watching her fingers fly over the keypad. His eyes caught sight of the nametag pinned to her apron. "Busy day, Shiloh?"

"Extremely. And Emily called in sick, and Ernie's on vacation, so it's just me today," Shiloh replied, flashing Sam a brief smile as she started bagging his purchases.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. Unless your name happens to be Murphy, I don't blame you in the slightest."

Sam chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

Shiloh paused, resting her weight against the counter as she put a hand on her hip. "Anything that can go wrong pretty much has. I've still got a mess of cans to clean up that I spilled at six fifteen."

"This morning?" Sam asked incredulously. At her nod, he glanced towards the windows before shifting his gaze firmly back to her, eyeing her torn apron, the bandaged hand, and the haggard look in her eyes. "Anything I can do to help?"

"I can't do that," Shiloh protested, resuming her motions as she stuffed his chips into a bag. "I don't even know your name. And besides, it looks like you're buying food for a couple of people."

"It's Sam," he answered. "And my brother can wait. Are you sure? I haven't done my good deed for the day," he finished with a small grin.

Shiloh chewed her bottom lip for a moment as she sized him up. Finally she pointed over towards the produce area and said, "There's a box of rotten bananas under that tarp you could take out back for me. I'll let you have these for free," she added, holding up the bag of M&Ms.

Sam nodded. "I can do that," he replied.

-SPN-SPN-SPN-

Dean sighed again, the leather bench seat squeaking slightly as he shifted his body, propping his left knee against the steering wheel. He tipped his head up as he rubbed the worn steering wheel. "Why us, huh?" he muttered to the car, curling his fingers around the wheel. "What did we do to deserve such screwed up lives?" The leather squeaked beneath him again as he twisted his torso so he could drum his left hand on the dashboard, his right hand still loosely gripping the wheel as he watched cars glide down the street.

When Dean was younger, he had never really been bothered by the way they had lived – it was the way things were. As long as Sam was safe and their dad was still around, that was all he needed. Sam had done enough agonizing over their childhood for the both of them, anyway.

But when Sam had first walked out that door, the world shifted. Suddenly one of the only things that really mattered to Dean was gone with only a "You're always gonna be my big brother" to try and keep him sane.

Dean had done everything he could to keep things the way they were. He hunted non-stop, chased practically every skirt in sight, tried just about every alcoholic beverage on the West Coast – anything to deny that once again someone in his family had vanished right under his nose.

True, Sam's vanishing was much different than Mom's. It was even mildly expected – but that didn't make it hurt any less. For the first few years, Dean had attempted to keep some type of connection with Sam. And while he had noticed the quiet despair in his brother's voice whenever they had talked on the phone, Dean could always hear another voice in the background – someone would be there to pull Sam out of his funk when he hung up.

Dean had no one.

After awhile, he'd stopped calling, stopped driving by Stanford every other month, until the only times he saw his brother before Jess' death were his birthday and Sam's birthday, each time from a great distance. He'd thought that as time went on, things would right themselves, the world would fall back on its axis, and he'd stop walking around feeling like there was a gigantic piece of himself missing. After all, normal families did this all the time – sending their kids, their siblings off to God-knew-where so they could start life on their own.

But as Sam had constantly pointed out, their situation was far from normal. Normal families didn't have to put salt around all the windows and doors. Normal families didn't have an arsenal under a secret panel in the trunk of their car. Normal families didn't have monsters that stole mothers away from them. Normal dads didn't disappear without a trace.

Normal little brothers didn't have psychic abilities.

Ever since he'd snatched Sam up from the smoldering remnants of his "normal" life, Dean had been alternating between anxiety and respite. Sam being back meant Dean didn't have to watch his own back, didn't have to constantly worry about what his younger brother up to, if he was happy, if he was _safe_. But Sam coming back had also brought a whole new set of problems, as if life hadn't thrown enough at them.

So yes, Dean did feel some justification at his recent surge of paranoia. Sam's secret visions coming to light combined with his disappearance from a Minnesota parking lot, not to mention his near-decision to travel to California (which, granted, wasn't entirely his fault – Dean knew he had some responsibility for that, too) and their father's disappearance had proved to be almost more than Dean's already-frazzled nerves could handle.

_Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving._

Dean grimaced, his left hand clenching into a fist on top of the dashboard. All his work to convince Sam he wasn't mad about Indiana anymore had flown straight out the window with that little comment. He hadn't even meant it – not really. Dealing with Sam at the moment was just so _frustrating_…

But, he amended as he looked to the storefront, Sam did have a valid point. Time and time again he'd proved that he could handle himself on a hunt, even when he was young. He'd survived just fine on his own for almost four years – he was a Winchester, after all. And the incident with the Benders was a fluke – near disaster, yes, but still a fluke. Both of them had acknowledged that.

That didn't make it any easier for Dean at the moment, though. He continued to eye the storefront, his grip on the wheel tightening reflexively when a large Dodge pickup blocked his view of one of the windows.

The pit in his stomach was growing by the moment, and he couldn't figure out why.

Dean's eyes darted around, scanning the people loitering around the small store. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary – just a small-town grocery store with siding that could use a thick coat of paint. A young mother with her two sons emerged from the doors, settling the youngest in a stroller while the other son chatted happily, making faces at the young toddler. Dean smiled faintly as he watched the two boys interact with each other and their mother, a faint ache in his chest as he watched the woman's blond hair flutter in the wind.

The small family was driven from his mind as the shiver ran up his spine, and he started scanning the store front again. The glare from the sun was still full-force on the windows, and there was definitely no Sam in sight. Dean chewed his lip for a moment, wondering just what was setting off his inner alarms. "Whatever," he finally muttered, easing the Impala's door open and sliding out. He strode across the parking lot towards the store, working out an excuse in his mind for why he was coming in when he knew it would just piss Sam off even more.

His stride slowed slightly, his head tilting in confusion when he saw the glare on the windows give way to a bright flash of orange light. In surreal slow motion, the glass of the windows blew outwards followed closely by a wall of fire. A split-second later, the concussion of the shockwave slammed into Dean as the sound of the explosion nearly deafened him. The hunter flew backwards, colliding with the hood of the Impala and tumbling to the ground in a shocked daze as glass rained down around him, the harsh sound of flickering flames growing louder and louder as time sped up again.

An instant later, Dean was on his feet, one hand clutching at his chest as he struggled to get his lungs to take in air. His green eyes widened in horror at the fierce flames leaping out of the shattered storefront windows and up towards the sky, a dark, billowing plume of smoke rising high over the building as the entire thing was engulfed. The truck that had pulled in front of the store had been shoved backwards several yards into a small Toyota, the deep red paint on the hood already peeling from the intense heat of the flames.

"S-Sam," he gasped as the invisible hold on his ribs finally released, allowing him to breathe again. He took a few steps forward, his eyes frantically looking for any sign of movement within the flames. The heat was intense, driving him back towards the Impala. His heart thudded painfully as terrified screams filled the air.

"Oh my God!"

"Someone call 911!"

"My wife is in there!"

A frantic man ran forward, his dark eyes wild with fear as he tried to get close to the flaming building. "Sara! SARA! Oh, God, Sara!"

Dean stared as the man was held back by a few other bystanders. "Sir, you can't, it's too late – there's no way anyone could have survived that," another man shouted over the terrified husband's screams.

_No one could have survived._

"Sammy," Dean breathed, his feet stumbling forward a step. People were rapidly closing in around him as a crowd gathered, and in the distance sirens screamed.

Dean saw and heard none of it. His eyes were still glued to the flames, willing some kind of shadow, _any_ kind of movement…

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!_

"Sam!" Glass crunched beneath his boots as Dean surged forward. He side-stepped around a woman who was trying to stand in his way. "SAM!"

Strong hands gripped his right bicep, jerking him to a halt. "You can't go in there, man!" a voice shouted in his ear, trying to be heard over the flames and the screams.

"My brother's in there!" Dean snarled, wrenching his arm free. "SAMMY!"

"It's too late, man! Don't be stupid!" the voice replied, latching an arm firmly around Dean's chest.

Dean brought his arms up and yanked the arm away. "I've gotta save him! Sam!"

"I really hate to do this, man."

Fingers suddenly crept up Dean's neck and before he could move, they squeezed. Blackness flooded his mind, driving out the one lone thought that occupied it.

_Sam_.

**_TBC..._**


	2. Part Two

_**Summary: **Peripeteia - n. A sudden change of events._ _Two shot._

* * *

_"I am not afraid of pain, nor of sorrow. But this loneliness, this futility, this emptiness – I dare not face them."  
- Ruth Benedict_

_-SPN-SPN-SPN-_

"Hey, kid, I'm closin' up for the night. You gonna be able to make it back alright?"

Glazed green eyes slowly looked up from the empty glass to look dazedly at the speaker. "Wha'?"

Stan frowned, his pale eyes flashing with concern. "You gotta stop this, kid," he said gently, pulling the glass out of lax fingers.

Fists clenched briefly before falling limp again as his eyes dropped back to the counter. "Whatever."

Stan sighed, setting the glass with the other dirty ones. He'd learned after the first two nights serving him – give the kid the hard stuff for the first two rounds, followed by watered-down Budweiser so he wouldn't drink himself into a stupor.

Not that it mattered much. The grief did more damage than the booze ever would. Stan knew that from first-hand experience.

Rubbing at his gold band with his thumb, Stan leaned against the bar, resting his beefy forearm on the counter. "Kid, you can't keep doing this."

"Why do you care?" came the expected snarl, green eyes flaring up as he glared at the bartender. "I never asked for your opinion."

"Doesn't make a difference."

He snorted humorlessly, rubbing a finger over a gouge in the varnish. "What do you know, anyway?" he muttered bitterly.

"I know you're not the only one who's suffering from this – shit, half the people in here today knew someone who died in that explosion. I know you're hurtin' bad – it was your brother. An' I sure as hell I know drinking yourself to oblivion does nothing to stop the pain."

There was silence for a long moment as the kid continued to trace the gouge with his finger. Finally he stirred and looked up.

"You talkin' 'bout your wife?" he asked, his voice a dangerous growl.

"Yeah," Stan replied softly.

"Well tell me this," the kid continued, eyes going dangerously cold. "Your last conversation with her – how'd it go?"

Stan didn't look away from the intense glare. "We talked about our honeymoon. Yours?"

Pale lips twisted into a bitter smirk. "Swell. You wanna know what I did? I yelled at him. The last time we talked, an' I-" He paused, swallowing hard as his eyes filmed over again. "- I yelled at him," he finished in a whisper.

Stan silently reached into the fridge under the counter and pulled a can of Diet Coke. He popped the tab and passed it over, watching silently as the kid took advantage of the distraction and chugged the can down. "You may not like what I'm about to say, but I'm gonna say it, anyway," the bartender said finally.

He waited for a moment until those intense eyes locked with his own again. "If your brother cared about you as much as you obviously did about him, he knew you didn't mean it," he declared firmly. "It wasn't your fault."

"If I'd just gone in with him-"

"Then you'd both be dead, and I can say for sure he wouldn't have wanted that," Stan cut in.

"I do."

The bartender blinked in shock for a moment at the quiet admission before reaching over the counter to grab the collar of the well-worn leather jacket. "You'd better get your head screwed back on, kid. You think this is what your brother would've wanted for you? Drinking yourself to death just because you don't have the balls to suck it up and keep fighting?"

The leather jerked as the kid drew back as if struck. Stan released the coat and leaned back. "Yeah – truth sucks, don't it?"

With a soft growl, the kid pulled a wrinkled twenty out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter before stomping out, his stride only slightly impeded by the liquor he'd had earlier.

Stan smiled sadly as he watched the door closed. "Don't come back now, ya hear?" he whispered softly.

-SPN-SPN-SPN-

Dean growled under his breath, reaching up with his left hand to wipe his eyes furiously as he attempted to jam the key into the door lock for the fourth time.

_You'd better get your head screwed back on, kid._

"Damn it," Dean hissed as the key jammed in the lock. He twisted it harshly, and smirked when the deadbolt gave way. After jiggling the key a few times, he managed to get it out intact and he stumbled into the room.

With a sigh, he flicked the switch and leaned back against the door, making it slam shut. After sputtering a few times, the bulb buzzed on, giving dingy light to the equally-dingy room.

Dean eyed the seemingly ransacked room. Clothes were strewn everywhere, the beat-up chair was tipped over, sections of newspaper were scattered across the floor, and several old food boxes were sprawled over the table.

_You think this is what your brother would've wanted for you?_

_No_, Dean silently admitted, his shoulders slumping forward as he shuffled into the room. Sam would've wanted him to keep going, to keep tracking down Dad, to kill whatever had murdered their mom and Jess.

Dean didn't think he could anymore. Not without Sam.

He let his gaze wander around for awhile before focusing on the journal that rested on the bed farthest from the door – Dad's journal. Sam's bed.

Or, at least, Dad's old journal. And the bed Sam _used_ to take.

Suppressing the sob that threatened to break free, Dean began to move again. Despite the headache that was beginning to pulse just behind his forehead, he started cleaning up, his movements gradually becoming frantic and obsessed as he tried to rid himself of any evidence of the last four days.

Four days. Four days since the world bounced off its axis – again. Four days since his entire world went up in flames – again.

And he'd thought the last time Sam had left had been painful.

Dean kept moving, piling the empty food boxes around the puny trashcan, shuffling all of the newspapers and computer print-offs into a pile, picking up his clothes and putting them in a pile on his bed – anything to try and keep him from thinking about the one thing – the one person he couldn't afford to think about but couldn't _stop_ thinking about.

Sam.

Dean paused for a brief moment as he stared at the headline of the newspaper in his hands.

****

EXPLOSION KILLS 14, INJURES 20

The paper crinkled as Dean's fists tightened. Nowhere in the article did it mention Sam's name. Dean had never given it to the authorities. The Winchester instinct wouldn't let him give that kind of information to anyone with a badge. Besides, he'd left before telling anybody anything.

He'd woken up in the back of an ambulance – alone. When he sat up, he could see paramedics helping out those who needed it more. Dean watched as a pair of medics helping the woman he had seen earlier. Her blond hair was matted with blood, her hands and clothes were equally covered with the vibrant color, and she was sobbing and clutching at her two sons, both of whom were clinging fiercely back. Dean hadn't called any attention to himself – he didn't want to pull away help from someone who actually needed it.

There wasn't much anyone could do for bruised ribs and a shattered heart, anyway.

He'd sat in silence for a while, watching the firefighters as they tried to contain the blaze. Gradually the flames died away, leaving only the smoking husk of what had once been the Hillside General Store.

A medic approached him as one of the rescue workers pulled out the first charred pieces of a human body. Dean hadn't responded to any of the medic's queries, instead striding past everyone over to the Impala. He skimmed a hand absentmindedly over the dent in the hood before he got in and pulled away.

He'd stopped at the first motel he'd seen. After dropping off his stuff, he'd gone straight to the bar across the street.

Dean stared at the article for a moment longer without really reading it. He'd read it enough times already – it was ingrained into his brain. The entire town mourned the loss of fourteen people.

Only Dean knew there was a fifteenth victim. Only Dean knew that somewhere among the rubble and ashes was a six-four geeky little brother.

Only Dean knew Sam was gone.

He hadn't called his father yet. Every time he was about to punch in the number, he flipped his phone shut. He'd cussed himself out several times for being a wimp, but it didn't motivate him any further to press that speed dial. Calling Dad meant burying another family member. Calling Dad made it final.

Dean tossed the paper onto the table, causing the pile to shift and revealing another equally-painful headline.

****

RUPTURED GASLINE CAUSED EXPLOSION, FIRE MARSHAL SAYS

Dean turned away from the table and reached into the pile of clothes he'd placed on the bed. After a few false starts, he managed to peel off his jeans and his jacket and yanked on a pair of sweatpants, his mind wandering back to the headline.

For a small-town organization, the fire department had been quick and thorough, coming up with their initial findings after only two days, and the generic result had Dean alternating between laughing and screaming on the inside.

Gas leak. A frickin' _gas leak_ had taken his brother away from him.

Ever since his father had started hunting supernatural things, Dean had always imagined he and his father would die heroically, maybe even taking the thing that killed Mom with them. He'd never included Sam in that picture – in his mind, Sam was going to far outlive both Dean and John.

_So much for Winchester instinct_, Dean thought bitterly as he collapsed onto the far bed. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, his hand sliding up to grip the knife hidden there. His fingers traced over the ridges on the handle, and he choked back another sob as he remembered the flustered look on Sam's thirteen-year-old face when he'd told him it was the best birthday present ever.

_Let me know when you decide if you're staying or leaving._

Dean gripped the handle of the knife tighter as the lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. All he could picture was the sorrowful look on Sam's face as he disappeared inside the store, only to be swallowed by a ball of fire. He turned his head slightly and took a harsh breath, thin lines of moisture escaping from the corners of his eyes as he struggled not to sob.

_God, Sammy. I'm so sorry._

_**Thud**_

Dean shot up a little, propping himself on his elbows as he stared at the door. "Go 'way!" he croaked angrily, burying his face in the pillow again and adjusting the grip on his knife.

_**Thud**_

"Damn it," Dean groused, yanking the knife out from underneath his pillow and staggering to his feet. He stumbled to the door, nearly tripping over the duffel bag lying at the foot of the other bed. "I said go 'way!" he called as there was yet another thud.

Tightening the grip on his knife and intending to scare away whoever was trying to get him up, he raised his arm slightly, then threw the deadbolt and yanked the door open.

And was nearly knocked down by a large, collapsing body.

The knife clattered to the ground as Dean staggered to support the limp body sagging against him. He half-succeeded, managing to stop the body's downward slump but falling to his knees himself. "What the hell?" he grunted, moving his arms to grasp the body's shoulders and force the weight away as a hand weakly grabbed his right arm.

He froze at the sight of the figure grasped in his hands.

"No – no way."

The figure stirred at the choked whisper, raising half-hooded eyes up to Dean's. Dean felt his throat close up at the sight of the familiar eyes staring into his, the shaggy hair nearly covering them. "D-Dean," it groaned, voice hoarse and soft as a large hand squeezed his arm.

"Oh, God… Sam?" Dean whispered again, moving his left hand to brush the bangs out of – _could it really be?_ – Sam's eyes as he quickly scanned the body in front of him. Sam's face was bruised and scratched, with stitches holding one gash closed on his right cheek. His jeans were torn and stained with dried blood, and he was wearing a t-shirt with Jeff Gordon's face printed on the front, along with a large 24. His right arm rested against his chest in a sling, and his eyes, although glazed with pain, seemed mostly alert.

Dean swallowed as a thought crossed his mind. "_Christo_," he murmured.

Sam's shoulders shook as he chuckled softly, his mouth tipping into a wry smirk. "'S'jus' me, Dean. Y' can check with a cam'ra if ya wan', see 'f 'm a shape shifter."

Dean felt his heart beat painfully, maybe for the first time in four days, at his brother's wry, slurred words. "Sam?"

Sam tilted his head slightly, his bleary eyes searching Dean's. "Yeah, Dean," he whispered back, squeezing Dean's arm firmly this time.

Dean swallowed again, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "_Sammy_," he croaked, latching his arms around his brother and pulling him close.

Sam moaned faintly in pain, but quickly wrapped his left arm around his brother's back when Dean tried to pull away. "'S'kay," he breathed, letting his head loll forward onto Dean's quivering shoulder as his fingers twisted into the soft fabric of Dean's t-shirt.

Dean reached up with and threaded his fingers through Sam's hair, keeping his other fist at Sam's back and trying to keep himself from crying. "Thought you were dead, Sammy," he croaked, tightening his grip even more.

"I know. But 'm not," Sam murmured, his body gradually going lax in Dean's arms.

"Y-yeah. I see that. You'll have some serious explaining to do later. For now, let's get you patched up, huh?" Dean murmured, glancing out the door at the night sky and mouthing _Thank you_. He took a breath before pulling away to look at Sam again. "Geez, Sam," he hissed in sympathy as he quickly started scanning his brother again.

"'M okay, Dean. Th' doc patched me up," Sam replied, forcing his eyes to stay open.

Dean swallowed, letting his hands skim over the bruises and cuts on Sam's arms before resting them gently on his shoulders. "Sounds like you're on the good drugs, too," he said thickly. "C'mon, let's get you inside before someone sees this and decides they need some crackers to go with all this cheese."

Sam snorted, then whimpered as Dean pulled him up. He struggled to get his legs underneath him and nearly went down again, but Dean quickly adjusted his grip so that Sam was practically draped over him, reaching behind him with his leg to kick the door shut. "C'mon, help me out a little, Sammy," Dean murmured encouragingly as he quickly shuffled his feet over to the far bed. Sam slid his feet across the thin carpet, nearly causing both Winchesters to stumble.

Somehow the arrangement worked, though, because a moment later Dean was easing Sam down onto the bed. "Where's it hurt the worst, dude?"

Sam's forehead wrinkled in thought for a moment. "Ah… ribs. Cracked a couple."

Dean winced in sympathy, his hands already probing at his brother's chest beneath the faded t-shirt. "Didn't know you were a NASCAR fan, Sammy," he teased, his tone light even as he frowned at the feel of bandages wrapped tightly around Sam's chest.

Sam winced at the pressure on his ribs. "'S'not mine," he replied softly, his head lolling forward slightly.

"Hey, Sammy, stay awake just a little bit longer for me, okay?" Dean called, softly patting Sam's ear. Sam's eyes flew open, and he nodded weakly. "Where else do you hurt? What's wrong with your arm?"

"Dislocated shoulder," Sam replied. "'S getting better, though."

"How'd you do that?"

The conversational tone did nothing to hide the sharpness of the question as Dean's relief began to ebb away into confused anger. Sam was silent for a moment as Dean fiddled with a bandage wrapped around his hand. "Flew into a dumpster," he replied finally.

Dean's gaze shot up sharply as he started intently at Sam. "What?"

Sam's eyes darkened as he lowered his gaze. "She needed help," he murmured after a moment.

Dean twisted his head slightly as he strained to hear his brother. "Who?"

Sam reached up to fiddle with his sling, but was stopped when Dean snagged his hand in mid-air. "Sam." Dean waited until Sam looked back up at him and then squeezed the bandaged hand gently. "Who?"

"I don't – been tryin' to 'member, but I can't…"

Dean immediately reached up with his free hand to probe beneath his brother's mop of hair. He frowned when he felt the knob just above Sam's right ear. "Concussion?"

Sam nodded once. "Doc said I'd be fine, but 'e wasn' sure if I'd ever r'member."

"What's the last thing you do remember?" Dean asked, moving to sit on the bed next to his brother.

Sam listed slightly, his shoulder just brushing Dean's. "Grabbing you some M&Ms."

Dean sucked in a quiet breath at the statement. Buying Dean his favorite candy was often Sam's way of trying to apologize. "You didn't have anything to be sorry for, Sammy," he murmured.

"Neither did you."

Dean swallowed when Sam looked at him knowingly and quickly shifted the subject. "You hit a dumpster?"

Sam shrugged with his good shoulder. "I guess. I woke up a couple days ago. Doc said they found me behind a dumpster. Said it protected me from flames."

"Thank God for that," Dean muttered, his fist clenching into the bed's comforter as the memory of a fireball seared across his mind. "And you have no idea how you got out there?" he asked a little louder, his voice thick.

Sam's lips twisted as his eyes slid lower. "I think… something about… giving you time? And Shiloh needed help. She was workin' alone," he muttered, his body lurching as he started surrendering to the pull of drugs.

Dean reached out and supported Sam, taking care not to jar the injured shoulder. "Easy, Sammy," he soothed as he helped Sam stretch out onto the bed.

Sam's body went lax into the mattress, but his free hand came up to grip Dean's arm as the elder Winchester tried to adjust the sling to make it a little more comfortable. "Dean?" he whispered, eyes opening stubbornly to look into his brother's face as Dean looked up at him. "You okay?"

"Why didn't you call me, Sammy?" Dean asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying his damnedest to keep his voice from breaking. "Why did you let me think you were _dead_?"

Sam suddenly looked a little sheepish, and his head tilted to the side as he mumbled something under his breath. Dean ducked his head a little closer. "What?"

"I said I couldn't r'member your number," Sam repeated, tilting his head back to look at Dean. The grip around Dean's arm tightened, as if Sam were afraid Dean would suddenly disappear on him. "Lost my phone, an' I couldn't remember. 'M sorry."

"Wasn't your fault," Dean replied immediately, his voice firm. He pried Sam's hand from his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze before placing it on the bed and standing. "Get some sleep, dude. We'll talk more in the morning, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam breathed, letting his eyes slide shut as he relaxed fully into the bed. As Dean tugged the blankets up over his brother's shoulders, Sam murmured, "Glad you're 'kay, De."

Dean swallowed and blinked a few times. "Glad you're okay, too, Sammy."

Sam sighed in response, a small smile curling his lips as he drifted off to sleep. Dean stared at him for a moment longer before standing up. Silently he moved to his duffle bag that he had nearly tripped over on his way to the door earlier and grabbed a canister of salt and a Sharpie from its depths. He moved instinctively, scratching protective symbols over the window and door frames and laying down a thick layer of salt – something he hadn't done earlier because he'd had nothing to protect, nothing to _live_ for.

Alive.

Sam was _alive_.

Dean shot a glance over at the bed again as he set the salt canister and marker on the table on top of all the newspapers. He had no clue why, wasn't even sure _how_, but he didn't really care at the moment because his brother was alive and _here_ and all of a sudden the world was spinning again.

Dean couldn't hold back a grin as he went into the bathroom to wash up, keeping an eye on Sam through the mirror – or Sam's legs beneath the blankets, rather, which was all he could see from this angle. His stomach growled with the sudden realization that he hadn't really had anything to eat besides beer and saline for the last few days despite the ridiculously high amount of empty food boxes he'd cleaned up earlier. Most of what he'd eaten had stayed down long enough for Dean to make it to the bathroom to bring it right back up again. When his stomach complained loudly again, Dean silently vowed to go pick up the biggest breakfast in the morning, even if Sam-

Dean's eyes glanced up to the mirror again and he froze, his heart stuttering to a stop.

The lump was gone.

"No," Dean breathed, the washcloth dropping from his hands into the sink with a wet _squelch_ as he whirled around to look back into the room. "Sa-"

The panicked call died on his lips when he caught sight of Sam curled on his side on the far edge of the bed, leaving the space closest to the door open.

Dean slumped against the wall for a moment, waiting for his heart rate to drop a little as he watched the blankets shift when Sam breathed. His lips twitched a little as he thought, _If Sam thought I was paranoid before…_

_Glad you're 'kay, De._

Sam would probably be in the same boat, though, Dean realized as his brother shifted in his sleep. Dean had always been there when Sam woke up in a hospital (which was far more times than Dean would've liked). Dean knew that waking up alone would have been more than a little disconcerting for Sam – he'd felt the same way the first time he'd woken up alone in a hospital after Sam had gone to Stanford.

Wearily Dean flicked off the bathroom light and shuffled back over to the beds. He eyed the other bed for a moment, contemplating on the amount of effort it would take to shove all of his laundry off before gently lowering himself onto the empty side of Sam's bed, taking care not to jar Sam's cracked ribs and strained shoulder.

There'd be a lot of thing to go over in the morning. Finding out just what all had happened to Sam in the hospital; figuring out how Sam had been able to find him at this motel; working through the nightmares and memories from the explosion that would probably emerge over the next few weeks; getting Sam back on his feet and back into the hunt.

"Night, De."

Dean grinned sleepily into the pillowcase at the whisper. "Night, Sammy."

Questions could wait. For now, Sam was alive.

And that was all that mattered.


End file.
